Wing
by Wonderfly
Summary: Could Draco and Ron have more in common than they thought? RWDM Contains selfmutilation, slash, underage drinking, language
1. Sting

Although the sun was shining happily, it seemed, through the windows in his dormitory, Draco Malfoy had yanked the curtain shut tight around his four-poster, trying to make himself an artificial night. He hated it when the world outside was so blatantly defying his mood. He had been lying on his side, staring at the emerald green curtains surrounding him and thinking about the night before. He had done it again. Stayed up walking around the castle and getting _completely_ wasted. He actually met Pansy on the way to the Prefect's Bathroom, and being drunk, he had done who-knows-what with her because she was the only person that really ever gave him any positive attention and superficial love. He told himself all the time that it was pretty much the human condition to be lonely, and he might as well get used to it, but he found that any time he actually found someone who paid attention to him (which was never often) he latched onto them no matter how disagreeable he found them.  
Draco rolled over on his back lethargically, still feeling the effects of the Firewhiskey he had drunk, and almost yelled out in surprise at the contact he made with Pansy's sleeping form. He stared for a minute, blinking, and then sat up slowly. Draco knew that he had engaged in some foul play with her the night before, but strangely, he couldn't deal with the evidence. Even though he had known it was real, he thought that he could push it away and lie to himself if he didn't have to see her. But there she was, lying in his bed with her warm body pressed up to his. He eventually averted his gaze to the ceiling, biting his lip and getting a sick feeling in his stomach that had nothing to do with being hungover. He could feel his throat getting tight and he tensed up in an attempt to avoid crying. Panicking, he laid back again, breathing hard. He could feel tears collecting at the corners of his eyes and eventually sliding down the sides of his face. Draco clenched his fists, damning his life all over again.  
He looked over at Pansy a second time. She had most of the sheets twisted around her naked body and the sun peeking through another crack in the curtains only made her pale skin look paler. His gaze fell to her stringy dark hair, which fell abundantly around her shoulders and into her face. Her brows were knitted as if she were concentrating hard on whatever she was dreaming. She looked so without fault, with the lights in her hair and her lips slightly parted. He felt so ashamed and he didn't even remember what he had done. How would he tell her that it hadn't meant anything to him, that he didn't even remember, when she so obviously cared for him? He knew the feeling of having his heart ripped out and stepped on. _How_ could he cause her that pain?_ How_ could he have been so stupid and irrational? Angrily wiping the tears from his face, Draco looked at his watch. It was nearly one. He listened to it tick as he turned his hand over slowly, looking at the mixture of white and red scars that had made their home there for years. Too many years. Too many years of feeling unimportant and unloved. Just being thrown away by everyone who was supposed to care about him. 

Draco really didn't feel like pulling himself together, venturing out into the common room, and pretending that everything was fine, but he got up anyway. He let his feet slowly come into contact with the cold stone floor, shivered, and then winced as the sun fully hit his eyes this time. Slowly pushing his near empty bottle of Firewhiskey underneath his bed, he staggered over to his trunk and pulled out a random shirt and pair of slacks, not even caring whether they matched or not. A gray sweater and black trousers hit the floor sadly. Draco looked back inside his trunk at all of his dark clothes and wondered when the last time that he had worn anything white was. Picking up the clothes again and throwing them on indifferently, Draco tried not to think about how he could hear Pansy breathing behind the bedcurtains. Then, shuffling over the hard, uneven floor, he dragged himself inside the bathroom and stepped in front of the mirror. Leaning over the sink, he watched his gaunt expression. Draco snorted at the dark circles under his eyes and his palid complexion. His eyes made their way from his white blonde hair, hanging in his face, down to his forehead. Then he stared into his own eyes. They were gray, and seemed rather distant. He wondered if they seemed that way to other people, too. Then his nose, slightly pointed, something he had inherited from his father. His lips, full, pink, unsmiling. He tried a grin, and he thought it made his face light up a little, but didn't like the way it felt. Smiling wasn't something he did often, and besides, If he had learned anything from his father, it was that hangovers weren't pleasant. He had no reason to be smiling. Draco buried these thoughts as he picked up his toothbrush and toothpaste. He unscrewed the cap on the toothpaste and squeezed out a pea-sized dollop onto his toothbrush. He stared at it for a moment, then shoved it into his mouth and started moving it back and forth against his teeth rhythmically. Once he had finished brushing his teeth, he spat into the sink. He continued his ritual, picking up his comb and holding under the water for a few seconds. He raised it up to his head and combed his hair, shivering at the water trickling down his head. Deciding he was composed enough, Draco looked into the mirror one last time, snorted at his reflection again, and left.  
He avoided looking over at his bed as he exited his dormitory. The common room was fairly empty, as usual, being Saturday, and Draco was glad. A few people greeted him, but he simply nodded and made his way across the room. Pansy was sitting in his favorite chair waiting for him. She must have gotten dressed and left while Draco was still in the bathroom. She turned, seeing Draco come into the common room, and she grinned and raised one arched eyebrow at him. Draco nodded to her also, looked down at his feet, and kept walking out of the common room. He couldn't deal with all the emotion it would require to even say hello to her. Even though pretty much all of the student body had that undying perception that he was like a concrete wall--hard, cold, and unfeeling--it simply wasn't the truth no matter how much Draco wanted it to be. He was bitter, but far from emotionally unfeeling. Walking down the corridor and away from the common room, Draco dwelled on how it would be not just not feel anything anymore. He wondered if there was a book in the Restricted section on Magical Lobotomies, and then laughed quietly at his own joke. Once he was almost at the end of the corridor, he heard Pansy's clacking shoes running to catch up with him. She grabbed his arm.  
"Where are you going?" she asked desperately, eager for his company. She smiled, trying to appear sultry and seductive.  
"I don't know," Draco responded quietly.  
"Well, I'll walk with you."  
"You can if you want, but listen, I...I think I should tell you...Look, I don't even remember what happened last night okay? All I know is, I woke up, and you were in my bed, and I don't know why."  
Pansy looked up at him, unbelieving and hurt. "_Bastard_," she said angrily, looking away.  
"I'm sorry that it happened this way, but at the time I just wasn't thinking. I have a nasty habit of trying to drink my problems away. I wish it never would have happened. I'm sorry"  
Pansy didn't say anything, just glared up at him through a curtain of hair. He could see her face giving away hints that she was going to cry. Draco squeezed her shoulder, sighed and said quietly, "If you knew me at all, you'd never want me in the first place. You'd think I was completely mad, and you'd stay away." Pansy shivered and shook her head. She turned and ran back in the direction of the common room.  
He watched her run back down the hall, wiping her face. Draco slumped against the wall, sliding down to the floor. He just felt like that's where he needed and deserved to be at the moment. He ground his teeth bitterly. He was no better than dirt.


	2. Wrong

Ron Weasley leaned back into one of the couches, gripping the arm so hard that his knuckles were turning white. He had been looking down at his lap determined, angry, having fits inside his head. This was the year that Hermione had finally started to notice him, but the thing was, now that this was finally happening, Ron wasn't sure how he felt about it. Over the years, he had waited and waited and waited for her. They had both known that Ron had emotions that hid under the surface of their friendship, but any time he showed her any affection or gave out hints, she backed off. His feelings of rejection and jealousy had only fueled their endless, redundant arguments. He had often lain in bed at night, viciously wondering how he could love and hate her. Honestly, it had had scared him to death. But he had gotten tired of the arguing and the seemingly endless waiting. He had moved on a while ago. It had been hard seeing her every day in classes- watching her sweep her hair off to the side when she was writing, or looking at a hole in the shoulder of her shirt. It nearly drove him mad. But it had gotten easier when they left that summer, though she had written him often. Her evasive nature over the years also came through in her letters. In the midst of previous summers, he would sit on his floor on hot summer nights, studying the letters she had written him over and over, longing to run to her and make her explain herself. He would crumple them up, only to smooth them out again for a seventeenth reading. She never wrote about what she felt, but about ideas or events. But this summer, instead of poring over them, he had just skimmed them and stuck them in his desk drawer to avoid emotion.

Ron shook his head, coming back to the present as he felt Hermione's gaze on him. Abandoning the book in her lap, she had been staring at him uncertainly for the past five minutes. Ron let his eyes dart nervously over in her direction. She was staring at his knuckles. He loosened them and let his hand hang idly over the edge of the arm of the couch. Had he really changed that much over the summer? He thought for a minute. He had gotten even taller and lankier, but it suited him, he thought. He had grown his hair out a little. His mother had often teased him over the summer about the way it curled up slightly at the back of his neck. "Your father's used to do that, too. At least before he started losing it," she had giggled. His face had also changed a lot. His features had begun to protrude more, characteristic of growing into an adult. He did look a lot older compared to the few recent pictures of him that his mother kept around the house. He wasn't much for the muscle department, but he had never really cared much about that kind of stuff anyway. Overall, Ron didn't think he was anything to admire, but he figured he didn't look so bad. 'Well, so much for my bloody personality, Hermione,' he thought bitterly. Ron glanced over at Harry, who was sitting opposite them in one of the chairs. Harry looked up and shook his head as if to say, "Oh, just get it over with already." Ron glared back vengefully. All the tension was only making the vibrant fire in the hearth in front of him seem hotter. "Ron, you really ought to be doing your Potions," Hermione chided, abruptly shattering the silence.  
"You're not," he pointed out.  
"And that would be because I finished it yesterday, when it was assigned"  
Ron rolled his eyes and said, "Of course," under his breath.  
Hermione just giggled. This was unlike her. Usually, she would have made some snide remark about his study habits. Ron raised his eyebrows at her. She held his gaze for a few seconds, blushed, and looked back down at her book. She must really have a thing for him if she wasn't spending her leisure time in the library. Harry just rolled his eyes and let his head fall into the back of his chair. "Well, it's been loads of fun, kids, but it's really hot in here and I'm going for a walk," Ron said, standing up and stretching.  
"Ron, it's about 58 degrees outside," Hermione replied.

He just shrugged and walked away indifferently. Walking out of the portrait hole, he could still feel Hermione's burning eyes and he shivered. He walked the corridors, purposefully making his shoes squeak against the polished stone floor and wondering where he was taking himself. He listened to his shoes squeaking and vaguely wondered if anyone was even paying attention to it. Attention was all he had ever wanted, but it wasn't easy to come by in his family. He had realized with horror recently that he was slowly becoming the dreaded stereotype that was the middle child. He had become unruly, rageful, quiet, and anxious. He often went out of his way to do stupid things to get in trouble so that he could prove to himself that his parents really did care about him. All he ever got was negative attention, but it was better than being ignored. Ginny was the baby, and so she was babied by his parents; George and Fred were twins, so they understood each other completely and shared that special connection that came with the job; Percy was the ambitious one that would surely change the world and make his parents proud; Bill and Charlie were already successful adults, with actual futures. Ron was nothing. Had nothing to show for. So he revelled in getting any attention he could.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he glanced up at the flowing portraits and flickering candles dripping wax in the brackets as he walked until he came to one of the pairs of giant oak doors that led out of the castle. The handle was wrought of iron and had a huge gryphon head. The gryphon stared at Ron with beady eyes and a malicious looking beak. Still staring at the strange obstacle, Ron abruptly pushed at the menacing handle until it started to give way. The door creaked in protest and Ron felt his knuckles pushing up against the wood uncomfortably as he gripped the cold handle. He felt the chilling air hit him and closed his eyes as a breeze flew over him. He stood for a moment, savoring the sensation of his hot blood finally cooling down. He felt his heart and pulsing veins slow. Goosebumps rose instantly on his arms and Ron rolled his sleeves down and made his way down the stone steps, eager to get away.  
It seemed as if the grounds themselves were silently dead except for the tall green grass. He fancied he could see the fog moving to swallow him as he walked. He looked up at the night sky, still feeling the fog enveloping his body, and watched the clouds pillow and roll across the moon. Closing his mind down and letting his feet lead him, he slowly continued to walk throught the dewy grass towards the north side of the castle, watching his world go black as the graying clouds completely covered the moon. He could barely see the path leading down to the lake through the thick cover of the trees, and it was somewhat overgrown since not many people, if any, had been down it yet. He meandered slowly down the path as best he could, watching out for thorn bushes and tree roots. He kicked at a shrub and finally reeled into the clearing that was the lake's residence. The bank was somewhat frosty, and the water seemed too still.

Everything was silent. Ron just stood and listened to the silence, then realized that it wasn't silence at all. In his mind, he created sounds of dew falling off leaves, of trees breathing, of water seeping into the ground. He moved to sit on a flat rock that overhung the the lake, scattering the rocks lining the shore as he went. The rock was wide, and not as rough as it seemed. It felt flat and smooth from years of wind and water as he sat at the edge, letting his feet hang over. The water below him rippled and lapped at the shore silently. 


	3. Moon

Draco Malfoy shifted his weight quietly along the branch that he was sliding down. He rested his back against the thick trunk of the tree, watched, and waited for something to happen. He heard Ron Weasley heave a sigh over by the lake. He had been watching him for the past half hour, by his wrist watch. Draco had a kind of obsession with watching people. He watched their lives pass by and wondered if they knew how amazing it was to be them. Even to watch them. Not to have to deal with parents who didn't care, or trying to be a different person in order to please them, or not having any real friends, or just wanting to bleed. To be anyone but Draco Malfoy. He had already analyzed Ron carefully before, by every aspect, and the only way that Draco could think of to truly describe Ron was that he seemed to be the still point in the midst of so much motion. He could tell that Ron saw things. Really saw them for what they were; Draco had seen him once stand for ten minutes admiring the way the leaves fell off off of one of the trees on the grounds.

Draco sensed rather than saw Ron shiver. Ron rubbed at his prickling neck, but didn't move. 'He must be freezing,' Draco thought, still trying to get comfortable in his tree. Draco, at least, had his thick black scarf wrapped around his neck. He checked his watch again out of curiosity. Realizing just how analytical he was being, he took his watch off and shoved it in his shirt pocket. His problem was that he thought about things too much. His watch could become just a blob of digital plastic, counting down something called time, and for some reason, it's passage had previously been important to him. But now, sitting on a rather uncomfortable branch in a tree and watching emotion, he realized that he could make his own time.

Lost in these thoughts, his body had untensed and become languid. The hand holding onto the branch he was sitting on slipped slightly and a twig snapped beneath his crushing fingers. In the unnatural silence it seemed like a firecracker. Draco grimaced and watched the eternity that was Ron's movement turning to face him. Upon seeing Draco clutching the tree, Ron's face contorted from peaceful to rageful. Ron's eyes connected to Draco and burned into his flesh vengefully. Ron watched Draco's every cat-like movement as he jumped from the tree and rustled the leaves below. "What," Ron said quietly, "were you doing up there"  
"Wishing I wasn't here," Draco said indifferently, in a monotonous voice that wasn't his own.  
"Well, that makes two of us," Ron snarled, turning away.  
"What reason could you possibly have to be unhappy with being here?" Draco asked sardonically.  
"That's none of your business, you fucking prick."

Draco said nothing, but sat on the shore and let the waves lap over the tips of his shoes. He sat there feeling his toes go numb, yet doing nothing. He looked up at the moon, then looked back down at his lap, returning to his feelings of rage and depression. Accepting for the hundredth time that he wasn't good enough for anyone, he bit his lip hard and dug his nails into his palms. He could feel none of this. The only thing he could feel was that his scarred heart was ripping open all over again by just the slightest cruelty. His natural impulse to fight back kicked in. Then the invection not only of Ron's words, but also simply of his life caused a change in him that made him want to let go. Releasing his voice, his pain, he screamed. He screamed a peircing scream that made the forest come alive: birds twittered and flew, leaves rustled. Then, just as abruptly, Draco's scream echoed and died. After Draco had quieted, Ron could still hear a ghost of Draco's scream ringing in his ears.

Draco gritted his teeth and covered his face with his hands. Everything went silent again, stayed silent for a seeming eternity, until Ron whispered,  
"Why did you do that"  
Draco looked up slowly. His eyes were red and swollen, injected with tears. He brushed at them angrily. Then he said,  
"Because I'm sick. Sick of people in my House thinking I'm some kind of God, when they don't even know me or appriciate me for myself. Sick of people in your house hating me for doing things I don't want to do. Sick of my parents hating me and making me the way I am, forcing me to live up to their immaculate reputations. Sick of not being good enough. I'm sick of life"  
Ron stared. Was this truly the Draco Malfoy he had known for four years? The Draco Malfoy that was so sure of himself, so cruel, seeming to revel in the attention he got? This new Draco that sat before him, this mystery, was screaming and crying as if none of his former personality was relevant or true. This Draco could be human, could be more than the propoganda that Ron had created in his mind. This Draco could feel. "I...didn't know," Ron conveyed weakly.  
They both knew that Ron meant to appoligize, but years of hatred had kept him from doing so properly. Draco looked away, still wiping at his tear stricken face.  
"I know it's hard to forgive some of the things I've said or done to you...but I want you to know that it wasn't truly me. It was my parents, my friends. I was too weak and scared to stand up to them and tell them that I didn't want to be that way, that I wouldn't. Just because you're different, they see that and they're scared...I've never seen the point in it," Draco said quietly.

Ron became aware that his mouth was hanging open and he shut it quickly. Was this a joke? Were these words truly coming out of Draco's mouth? Those tears running down his face? That pain delicately etched into his features? Ron didn't know how lost Draco had been until he went looking. Draco broke the silence again, asking himself,  
"Am I mad"  
Draco's personality had begun to transform his face and reroute his expression. Thinking this, Ron replied, "The only proof that you're actually mad is the inability to ask yourself that question"  
A moment passed, and then they looked at each other. They laughed. For the first time in a long time and for no reason in particular, they both laughed. 


	4. Self

Seeing each other in the crowded corridors or in class together, no one ever would have known that something dramatic had changed between Draco and Ron other than the fact that they didn't even look at each other. Things passed normally except that Draco seemed to be a lot calmer. He and Ron had stayed out late that first night, talking about past things awkwardly and learning more about one another, but the real reason that this change had occurred was because they had realized that they both needed each other. 

Ron had found that any topic of conversation was open with Draco, and this was something he had never experienced before. He was tired of trying not to upset someone by asking a question or talking about something that was on his mind. Every time he brought up Percy, or something about the Dark Arts, or just something that wasn't normally talked about at his house, he was told to shut up and sit down, basically. His family made him feel like it was wrong to be curious about something. He didn't really feel that he could talk to Harry or Hermione about things like that, either. They wouldn't know what to say or why he was asking.

Draco knew that Ron could be a true friend to him instead of clinging to him or being superficial and stabbing him in the back. But Draco had never had a true friend, and this prospect made him cautious. He wasn't sure that he had ever known that anyone could be a friend to him. He wanted to see Ron again, to get to know him more.

Seeing each other alone, things progressed from a nod, to a "Hey," until eventually they found eachother on the weekends and started spending their time in one of the old abandoned classrooms on the fifth floor.  
"You realize if anyone comes in here, you're going to have to act like you're stabbing me or something, don't you?" Ron asked Draco one afternoon.  
"I don't think anyone's going to get the urge to come up here unless we're unnaturally loud or something, but if you say so." Draco pulled out his pocket knife and set it on a desk jokingly.  
"Hey, that's not funny," Ron said, trying to look serious.  
"You're smiling."  
"Shut up.".  
Ron looked down at the long blade on the knife and noticed something on it that looked a bit like rust. Ron knitted his brows, still staring at it. Draco was walking around the room, too bored to notice. "Draco, is--is that blood?" Draco turned quickly and stared at Ron, then said,  
"On-on my knife? ...Yeah." Draco rubbed the back of his neck impulsively.  
"From what?" Ron asked, terrified. Draco walked over to the window ledge that Ron was sitting on slowly and pushed up the sleeves of his shirt. Ron looked up and down Draco's forearms, openly staring at all the scars and the new wounds. Looking back up at Draco's face, he asked simply,  
"Why?"  
"Mostly out of anger."  
"Why are you so angry?"  
"Because everyone expects me to be someone I'm not, my parents hate me, I hate me."  
"Your parents care about you, and you shouldn't hate yourself. And I like you for who you are, so don't worry about it." Draco snorted and said, "Yeah, I've been trying to tell myself that all my life. But there's something you don't understand. I am moving unstoppably away from the world I am going to inherit as the owner of some four story mansion that I don't even care about and a life that I don't want. I am going to have to throw all of these redundant parties just like my parents do in order to make another attempt to please them. I will invite all of my parents' friends that have always seen my family as the beautiful, haughty mother; the mysterious, powerful father; and the pointless teenage mistake following them. I will spend the rest of my life with numbness instilled in my brain because my parents are trying to protect me from the contamination of emotion, which I never wanted anyway, but you know, it would have been really fucking nice to hear an "I love you" at least once. Yeah, they don't even believe in the world that they created for themselves, and for all their bitching and caretaking, they really don't give a damn about me."  
Ron stared and eventually said, "It doesn't have to be that way."  
"Yeah? What am I going to do, run away from home?"  
"Good point. But don't give up so easily. Things could change."  
"Yeah, I guess..." Draco shrugged and slowly walked back over to the desk that his pocket knife was resting on. He picked it up, stared at it a minute, then folded the blade in carefully and returned it to his pocket.

PLEASE REVIEW! I HAVE MORE CHAPTERS, BUT I AM GETTING VERY DISCOURAGED!


	5. Torn

That Sunday came with torrents of rain, and Ron wasn't too pleased with it. He, Harry, and Hermione were all sitting in the common room again that night, as they always did when they had nothing in particular to do. Harry was tapping his fingers against the arm of his chair rhythmically, and Hermione was sitting at one of the few tables closeby finishing something or other for Arithmancy. The tapping and scribbling was driving Ron mad along with his restlessness, but he stayed quiet and still. Harry hit the arm of his chair weakly and rested his head back against the chair, exasperated. "I'm going to bed," he said tiredly,with a note of dissappointment in his voice that conveyed that he was sorry there was nothing better to do.  
"Yeah, okay. Have fun," Ron replied.  
Harry smiled and made his way towards the stone steps behind them. Ron looked over at Hermione. Her quill was poised in midair and she was watching Harry climb the steps. she looked back over at Ron suddenly and their eyes met for a moment. Ron looked away into the back of the chair across from him, which had now become rather interesting. "_Ron_," he barely heard Hermione whisper. He looked over at her again as she said,  
"Come sit with me."  
Ron could already feel the back of his neck getting hot. He didn't want to do this, this was bad. He got up, however, and went over to the table she was sitting at. He pulled out a chair across from her and sat down softly. The wood felt hard against his back, making him even more uncomfortable. Ron stared at his hands, thinking of something Harry had told him earlier. Something about Hermione really being into him. This had only put a seal on what Ron already knew to be true, and it just wasn't something Ron wanted to hear anymore. 

Hermione set her quill down gingerly on the table. This was not a good sign. She wanted to talk.  
"Ron," she started, "What's going on?"  
"What do you mean?" he asked, knowing perfectly well what she meant.  
"Between us. We used to be so close, but now that you know that...that I like you, well, y-you've just sort of backed off," she said quietly, her face slowly turning red. Ron stayed silent for a moment, thinking about what he wanted to say to her. He knew that he didn't want to sugar coat it, he was through with half-truths and glossed over emotions with her. Looking up, he replied,  
"Well, for one thing, it's just so sudden. I mean, I think we've both known for years that I had feelings for you, but something was just different for you this year I guess, and it makes me wonder if it isn't my looks. You're the one that backed away from me a long time ago when you wouldn't even talk to me about it or tell me Yes or No. I got over you over the summer. I waited for you ever since about second year, and I was through waiting."  
Hermione looked worried as she said, "I won't lie to you and tell you that it isn't your looks, because I think there has to be a certain physical attraction there, too, along with a good personality. You weren't that bad looking, but it wouldn't have been fair to you to date you when I wasn't attracted to you. I didn't want to talk to you about it because I was afraid I'd upset you. You just seemed so infatuated and happy, and the attention was nice."  
Ron replied sarcastically, "Well, I'm so sorry that I wasn't aware of how gruesome I looked! It's just too damn bad that I wasn't good enough to be seen with the likes of _you_! Fair to me? When has anything concerning this ever been fair to me? You should have at least told me why instead of tormenting me like that, Hermione!"  
"I'm sorry, I--"  
"Yeah, you're sorry, I'm sorry, everybody's sorry! Who cares anymore?" Ron yelled, watching the tears rolling down Hermione's face. She stayed silent, looking down. The ink on the paper she had been writing was smearing drastically as her tears dropped onto it. All of the other rare times in which he had seen Hermione cry, he had always wanted to cry himself, and had tried console her. This was different. He wanted her to hurt the way he had hurt. If she thought he was going to sit there and feel sorry for her again, then she was mistaken.

Ron stood up abruptly, pushed his chair in, and followed Harry's footsteps up the staircase,still angry. He stomped up them, hoping that everyone in the common room had heard their conversation. He turned down the hall towards the door to his dormitory, letting his hand brush the stony wall to his right. A candle flickered in it's bracket and Ron blew it out as he passed, annoyed. He came to his door, opened it harshly, and slammed it, not caring who he woke up. No one was in bed but Harry, who was now sitting up in bed and watching Ron cross the room to his bed next to his. Harry knew better than to ask what had happened, it was best to just let Ron bring it up, or else he'd get an earful about whatever was making him so mad. So he just nodded at Ron when he didn't say anything, and then went back to sleep.

The week passed slowly. Ron took part in all of the things he normally did with Harry and Hermione, but there was a strange coldness between all of them somehow. Ron was still as defiant as ever, Hermione was still hurt, and Harry was simply caught in the middle, unsure of what to say. They walked the halls, as silent as death, awkwardly breaking the silence every once in a while to ask a question or share a bit of information hopefully or to give up a 'yes' or 'no.' This was yet another reason to trod up to the fifth floor to meet Draco and actually talk to someone about things.

So, that Friday evening, Ron made his way to his dormitory quickly, threw his things on his bed, and rushed out to meet Draco, frustrated to the point of screaming about his friends' denial. The noises he made as he walked echoed against the stone walls and rebounded off them, making Ron a little paranoid as he repeatedly looked behind him. If Harry or Hermione found out...he would be pretty much fair game to his whole house. Not that things were going that well with Harry or Hermione already, but he had faith in them. They had been his best friends since he was twelve. There was just that one thing that they couldn't give him that Draco somehow could. He wanted understanding. It was a little ironic since Ron's family was worse off financially, and Draco's was well endowed, and there were all sorts of differences that they had besides this fact, but somehow things seemed to even out and strike some kind of balance that is typical of opposites attracting.

Ron arrived at the door he was looking for quickly and flung it open. He looked around at the empty desks and tables with their scratches and burn marks, ghosts of things that really happened. Everything was coated with an ancient layer of dust that had gone undisturbed for years, and the sun was shining through the dirty windows, casting a weird light over the room. Ron loosened his tie, sat down at one of the desks, laid his forehead down against the cool surface of the desk, and closed his eyes solmnly. The dust was making his nose twitch, but he paid it no attention, he had just wanted to get away, to go somewhere that he could lock his problems out of. Building up a wall of indifference around him already, he relaxed and his breathing slowed.

A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews...they really help and mean a lot!


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